Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses
by Allaine
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy’s relationship.  Will it survive?  Will they?  Sequel to “It’s Just Allergies”.
1. Chapter One

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (1/??)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
"Life – it can lift you up,  
It can drag you down,  
Life don't have to be   
No bed of roses . . ." - "Bed of Roses", the Indians  
  
Chapter 1  
  
"Hi, you big sweeties," Harley said to the hyenas as she approached where they had been leashed. She crouched down and invited them to come into her arms. "We'll be out of here and with my Red in just a minute."  
  
They came, but they seemed strangely subdued. If they didn't smile all the time, they would have been frowning right now.  
  
"What's wrong, babies?" she asked, encouraging them as she scratched behind their ears.  
  
"Why, nothing's wrong, now that you decided to show up."  
  
Harley stopped where she was. A couple of days ago, the sound of that voice would have had her on her feet, leaping into his arms, the picture of joy. Now, however, she felt a sinking feeling of dread. "Puddin'?" she asked hesitantly as she looked up.  
  
"Harley," the Joker responded smoothly. He leaned against the door, dressed as always. He appeared to be in a good mood, but she quickly spotted that dangerous glitter in his eye that meant he could change at any moment. "When you left Arkham without me, I just knew I had to find you. Why did you leave all by your lonesome? Forget to tie that string around your finger, perhaps? Didn't I make your daytimer?"  
  
She straightened at once, nervous. Why wasn't she happier? Why wasn't she happy, period?   
  
Could it be there was someone else who meant more to her? Oh God, maybe Ivy wasn't the only one who was in love.  
  
"I was worried about Ivy," she said honestly, fidgeting.  
  
"Ivy, Ivy, Ivy," he replied, shaking his head. "After all this time, you still won't obey when I tell you not to see her anymore. You love _me_, remember? I'm the only friend you have, the only one you _need_, Harley," he told her, his face growing ugly. "If you see Ivy being beaten to a pulp by ten men, and meanwhile I tell you I want the newspaper, what do you do?"  
  
"Save Red," she almost said, but instead she answered, "Fetch the paper?"  
  
"Very good," the Joker told her. "Now you can have a prize." Coming up to her, he reared back and slapped her across the face before she could react. "And don't ever forget it," he added before turning away.   
  
"I think I'm ready for bed," he continued as he walked away. "Let's go, Harley. You can start by taking my shoes off."  
  
She stood there, trembling, her hand against her cheek. "Puddin', do you love me?" she whispered.  
  
"I said, untie my shoes, Harley."  
  
Harley didn't want to undress him. She wanted someone to say "I love you, Harley". She wanted Red. She was trapped here, and she wanted out.   
  
"No."  
  
Slowly, he swiveled on his heel. "No?"  
  
She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute. She was utterly terrified, both of the step she was taking and of how he might respond. "I'm not coming to bed with you."  
  
He laughed maliciously. "Who said you were coming to bed with me? You can sleep on the floor with the babies."  
  
He was so good at making her feel bad. Why couldn't he have been good at something else? "I'm not undressing you, either. I'm leaving you."  
  
The Joker stared at her, and then suddenly, he laughed some more. "Sure you are," he chortled. "You can't go twenty-four hours without me, Harley, and you know it."  
  
"I've met someone else."  
  
"Uh-huh," he said, sneering at her. "Who's the lucky man? Lucky, meaning that I'll kill him slow."  
  
This was absolute suicide, she knew, but she couldn't help it. If he wanted her to feel bad about herself, then maybe she could return the favor. "It's not a man, _Joker_. I'm leaving you for Ivy."  
  
He looked at her, uncomprehending. "Ivy? Poison Ivy? Didn't know she used sidekick."  
  
"She doesn't want me to be her sidekick," Harley said, growing angry. She was so much better than just a sidekick. "She wants me to be her lover. And I think I want to be hers."  
  
The Joker began walking back to her, his fingers clenching and opening again. "Your jokes always were second-rate, Harley."  
  
She balled her hands into fists. "You're a terrible kisser, Joker. I'd rather kiss Red for two months than you for two seconds!"  
  
"You're serious," he said, astounded. "You're actually leaving me for a WOMAN?!" Leaping forward, he pulled his hand back. But this time his fist was closed, and he socked her in the eye.  
  
Harley fell onto her back, seeing stars.  
  
He landed on top of her. "Do you have any idea what people will _say_?" he asked, shaking her with both hands by the throat. "When they find out my girl left me for another woman? I'll be the laughingstock of Gotham! They're supposed to be laughing with me, not at me!"  
  
She clutched at his hands. "Can't breathe," she gasped.  
  
"Oh, no," the Joker whispered, letting go. "That would be too easy." Getting off of her, he kicked her savagely in the ribs. And then he did it again, and again, until she curled up into a fetal position. At that point he grabbed her by the back of her costume and, yanking her to her feet, sent her careening across the room so that she ran hard into the wall.  
  
She slumped to the floor, her body screaming in agony. "Please . . . stop . . ." she pleaded.  
  
"Oh, I'll stop," he promised as he grabbed her again. This time he threw her to the floor, face first. She was unable to break her fall with her hands, and blood gushed from her nose as it hit the floorboards. "I'll stop when you apologize."  
  
He punched her hard in the back where her kidneys were. "I'll stop when you say you'll never leave me again." Then he punched her again. "When you say you'll never _think_ of leaving me again." Again. "When you say you'll never see Ivy again, or better yet, when you ask me to kill her for you. Because you are definitely not a lesbian, Harley. You are MINE." One more time, and each blow drew louder cries from her.  
  
Breathing heavily, he stood over her, waiting for her to apologize. And then they could go back to the way they were before. He would apologize too, and he'd be good to her for a while, and it would be the same old thing. Only this time he'd kill Ivy so that Harley wouldn't have anyone but him again.  
  
And he'd have her tonight. This was giving him a raging hard-on.  
  
She mumbled something indistinctly.  
  
"You'll have to speak up, Harley," he told her. "There's a banana in my ear." And he cackled.  
  
Harley stretched her left hand toward the door. "Red," she murmured brokenly. "Help me, Red. Save me . . ."  
  
If he'd been angry before, now his rage was burning white-hot. This called for an "extra special" lesson, he could see. He placed his shoe on her back and pressed down hard, causing her to cry out.   
  
Frenzied, he checked his pockets until he found the switchblade in his right coat pocket. That stupid hand, reaching for the door as if she thought she could get away from him . . . "I'll show her," he snarled.  
  
The blade popped out with the touch of a button.  
_____________________________________________  
  
Ivy waited on the bed impatiently. She realized that Harley was just trying to maintain the suspense, but it had been an hour already, and she _really_ needed Harley in her arms again.  
  
"Why is taking so long?" she asked out loud.  
  
Frustrated and bored, she finally turned on the black-and-white television.  
  
"Repeating our special news alert," a bland anchorperson was saying, "earlier tonight, Harley Quinn, known accomplice to the Joker, escaped from Arkham Asylum and is considered to be very dangerous."  
  
"More like very obnoxious," she grumbled.  
  
"And alarm has increased considerably," he went on to say, "as the Joker managed to escape just a few hours later. Police assume that the two planned it in advance and are hiding somewhere."  
  
Ivy turned off the TV set. If it hadn't been for the events of that night, she would have felt disappointed. Once again, Harley was running off at the Joker's beck and call.  
  
Now, however, she felt ice-cold hands grab her heart and squeeze mercilessly.  
  
"Harley," she whispered. If she had encountered the Joker at the hideout, then maybe . . .  
  
Seized by a sudden panic, Ivy wrestled her outfit on in just a couple minutes before once again running for the door. Only this time, it was much more urgent.  
  
To be continued . . . 


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (2/??)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Ivy had managed to calm herself down somewhat by the time she reached the place which she knew Harley had gone to. After all, Harley could be notoriously bubbleheaded about some things, so wasn't it possible she'd just been distracted by something? Maybe one of her pets had made a mess on the floor, or something. And the Joker just _had_ to have at least a half-dozen bases scattered throughout the city. Anyone who broke into one of his hideouts would have to be a total idiot not to turn around, walk back out, and never speak of it to anyone.  
  
So she'd probably just find Harley sprawled on the bed, reading a magazine. Right?  
  
As she slowly made her way up the stairs, however, her optimism took a major hit when she discovered the babies pawing and whining at the door. They heard her coming and started to growl, but then they stopped after taking a few whiffs. Perhaps they smelled Harley all over her. Or perhaps they had bigger problems. They focused once more on the door.  
  
"Good boys," she said absently as she squeezed past them, adjusting the loaded miniature crossbow she'd attached to her wrist. She'd found it in her bathroom. Apparently Harley had brought it along with her costume when she'd been caught by the Bat sneaking in. Part of her plan to cheer Ivy up, she supposed.  
  
Ivy slowly reached for the doorknob with her other hand, her stomach churning. It seemed to take forever.  
  
Finally, however, she took it. And turned it. And opened the door.  
  
Since the hyenas shoved past her as the door opened, her view of the floor was obscured. What she instead saw first was a familiar pair of purple pants and dress shoes, propped up on a chest of drawers. The chair in which the Joker was reclining hid most of him from view, but she could see he had his hands tucked behind his head, and from the smoke guessed he was smoking a cigar. Immediately she brought her arm up so that the crossbow was pointed directly at the back of his chair.  
  
Then she looked down and saw the hyenas anxiously circling something on the floor.  
  
Ivy slumped against the doorframe as Harley came into view. She was facedown on the floor, and there was a puddle of blood around her face. Her left hand was outstretched toward the door, but a switchblade had been driven clean through the back of her hand, nailing it to the floor. Her face was purple and swollen, and her eyes were closed. She looked . . .  
  
Dead.  
  
She sank to her knees as all feeling slowly vanished from her legs. A soundless wail was torn from her lips and she wrapped her arms around her chest, while the direct cause of her abject misery went on smoking his celebratory cigar, totally unaware that someone had entered the room.  
  
Whimpering, the hyenas poked at Harley with their noses and licked her face hesitantly. She twitched and stirred a little, a very low groan escaping through her lips.  
  
Ivy could have been mistaken for a statue as she lay helplessly in the doorway, but now the air rushed back into her lungs with the force of a kick from a mule. She felt her blood unfreeze a little and start to flow through her veins again. Meanwhile, her grief and horror gradually gave way to a more familiar and satisfying emotion: a deep, homicidal rage.  
  
Slowly rising to her feet, she aimed her crossbow directly at his head, but at the last second, she shifted it slightly to the right before firing.  
  
The miniature bolt clipped his right ear, causing blood to splatter the floor, before it sailed past him, knocking the cigar from his lips and pinning it to the wall before him. Screaming from surprise and pain, he clapped his right hand to his ear and, stumbling out of his chair and to his feet, awkwardly tried to remove his gun from his jacket pocket with his other hand.  
  
Before he could do so, however, he found himself staring down the loaded weapon of Poison Ivy.  
  
Grinning a little, he let his left hand drop from his jacket. "Well. If it isn't the town tramp," he sneered.  
  
Her eyes burning, she inched her way forward until she was standing just to the right of Harley's savagely beaten form. Quickly glancing down, she was further enraged to see that the Joker had torn away the back from Harley's costume and bitten her hard enough to draw blood. "You sick . . . I can't even conceive of words to describe you with," she snarled, letting the madness take over.  
  
"What, don't you like my work?" he asked, sounding injured. "She never seemed bothered for long when I beat her in the past. I thought she liked it."  
  
And the most disturbing part was, Ivy thought he sincerely believed that. "Was that the only way you could touch her? Hitting her?" she shot back.  
  
"Oh no, we had plenty of sex, too," he leered at her. "And let's be honest - she'll never be satisfied with you after having me. You don't have the right 'package'," he added, looking pointedly at the space between her thighs.  
  
"At least," she retorted, biting the words off, "I know how to make her feel good about herself. I don't go out of my way to belittle her and put her down."  
  
"Well," he sighed, "it is an art form, you know. It's not easy to put someone down when they don't have any real talent or ability to speak of. She's not even a very good getaway driver." He looked at his fingernails lazily as her whole body shook from her growing fury. "Of course, neither of us will have to put up with her legion of inadequacies for much longer. She doesn't have more than a couple hours. I know a ruptured kidney when I cause one," he told her smugly.  
  
Her arm fell a little as she looked once again at Harley. She had fallen unconscious again, and Ivy's mind started racing. Harley needed instant medical attention, something more than Ivy could give her even with her botanical experiments. And she needed to get Harley out of here as soon as possible. So she should just kill him now, and then carefully -   
  
She heard the click of the hammer before it registered. It was another two seconds before she realized that he had distracted her long enough to get his gun out and aimed at her. She kept her own weapon focused on him, but she'd lost the advantage.  
  
Joker sniggered as he tightened his grip. "Women. So emotional," he said pityingly.   
  
"Try shooting me with one of these buried in your nostril," she warned him, shaking her crossbow.  
  
"Try shooting me with your brains giving my place a new coat of paint," he retorted. "Or we could just stand here like this while Harley heads further and further down that tunnel. Or maybe it's a _funnel_, since she could only be going down."  
  
"So we're all dead," Ivy hissed. "The future doesn't look too bright for you, either."  
  
"Maybe," he replied. "But then, you're looking mighty tasty to the babies."  
  
Ivy swore inwardly as she recognized how desperately this had spiraled out of control. It was bad enough when _all_ she had to do was somehow get Harley out of the building and - where? They were in a shitty part of town; where the hell could they go? But now she was in a Mexican standoff with a sadistic psychopath who had cheated death a dozen times and undoubtedly thought he could continue to do so for years to come. And she had two ravenous, carnivorous wild animals at her back, probably waiting for one word from their lord and master to pounce. It seemed Ivy wasn't very good at being a girlfriend.  
  
They hadn't even been together for a day. This struck Ivy as incredibly sad.  
  
As it turned out, the Joker used not one word, but two. "Babies," he said. "Kill."  
  
Ivy was prepared to fire her only shot at a spot right between his eyes, but she never even got the chance.  
  
Looking unusually thoughtful for a pair of scavengers, the hyenas looked at the Joker, at Harley, at Ivy, and back at the Joker. Having evidently reached a decision, they bent their legs a little before springing into action. They breezed past Ivy, one on each side. One clamped its teeth down on Joker's wrist, while the other attached itself to his ankle like a living bear trap.  
  
"No! . . . stupid . . . ouch! . . . it's obedience school for you!" the Joker screeched as he tried to shake them both off. He reflexively fired twice, but since he had a fifty-pound animal hanging from that arm, the gun was pulled downward. Both bullets flew harmlessly to Ivy's left.  
  
This served to rouse Ivy from her shock at seeing the hyenas go from menace to savior. She fired a hurried shot before diving out of the way of the Joker's line of fire and hiding behind a chest of drawers. "If we get out of this, Harley," she thought to herself, "your babies can urinate anywhere they damn well please."  
  
Her shot had a result similar, if unintended, to her earlier one. As he shook and yelled, he shifted his head so that the crossbow bolt tore through his collar and grazed his neck, causing the top of his shirt to become instantly red.  
  
Infuriated, he finally switched his gun from his right hand to his left and aimed at the body of the hyena that continued to gnaw at his wrist, tearing flesh and muscle. But the animal's bloodlust was not so great that it couldn't be aware of danger. It let go and dropped to the floor. Choosing a different target, it leapt for his crotch.  
  
"Bad dog!" he screamed as he was barely able to fend it off by striking it in the head with the pistol barrel. It backed away a little and shook its head.  
  
The other one also finally let go and backed up, snarling. One sleeve and one pant leg were torn to ribbons, and in some places, the purple in his clothing was a much darker shade than usual. Panting heavily, the Joker obviously favored one leg over the other.  
  
"You are all _so_ dead . . ." he wheezed.  
  
Having reloaded in the meantime, Ivy rose up from her behind her hiding place and fired another bolt.  
  
"As soon as I get back," he added hastily as he saw her shot and turned to run. The projectile struck him squarely in the right shoulder blade, but he only cursed and ran faster for a rear exit, both hyenas snapping at the seat of his pants.  
  
Ivy's immediate instinct was to pursue him. Her need to cause further damage, culminating in an extraordinarily painful death, was threatening to override all else.   
  
But she paused and looked at Harley, who still had not moved since that initial response to the hyenas' attentions. A very small part of her awakened, one that she'd only just learned about in the last couple days, one she'd hardly been able to explore. This inner voice acknowledged that yes, hatred and revenge and rage were very satisfying emotions, but when she was finished with him, what would she have left if Harley was dead?  
  
She was still burning with the desire to punish the Joker for his cruelty, but ever so slowly, Ivy was able to suppress that need and focus on caring for Harley. In doing so, she showed a capacity for self-control and sacrifice which had been utterly untapped previously.  
  
"Harley," she whispered softly as, having come from out of her hiding place, she fell to her knees next to the unconscious woman. "Are you awake?"  
  
There was no answer. But when Ivy put two fingers to Harley's neck, she was rewarded with a faint pulse.  
  
She could try to rouse her again, but it was more important to get her out of there before the Joker disposed of his pursuers and returned. And maybe it was best that Harley was unconscious, since one obstacle in particular would prove most painful to remove.  
  
Ivy considered leaving the knife in Harley's hand and just removing the whole thing from the floor, to prevent further blood loss, but that would be almost impossible to accomplish. So, after silently apologizing for what she was going to do, she grabbed Joker's switchblade by the handle and gently but firmly extracted it from Harley's hand.  
  
Her lover trembled in her sleep, but Ivy quickly managed to stop some of the bleeding by retrieving the part of the costume which Joker had torn away and tying it around her palm. As she did so, she looked again at her back where the outfit had been. His teeth would leave scars if she survived, she saw.  
  
Both of her inner voices agreed that the Joker could be dealt with much more satisfyingly after Harley was safe, and after she'd gotten a few things from her hideout.  
  
"All right now," she said nervously. "I'm just going to pick you up and carry you out of here." Shaking with fear, she carefully rolled Harley onto her side before getting her arms underneath her and lifting.  
  
Harley's face twisted as Ivy slowly took her in her arms. Ivy's heart bled to cause her such pain, but there was no alternative. Slowly but mindful of the lack of time, Ivy managed to take her out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk outside.  
  
Ivy was sweating from the weight, but she didn't dare rest. She couldn't put Harley down, only to pick her up again. She looked both ways and swore. She was surrounded by urban blight. Now what?  
  
She could have laughed hysterically. What she needed was 911.  
  
"Phone. Phone," she hissed repeatedly, knowing she had to go either left or right but not sure which way was better. Finally she chose left, if only because the street corner was near and she could turn and get out of the line of sight of Joker's hideout.   
  
Five minutes later, after a series of abandoned storefronts, dark tenements in which a few timid souls who would never answer the door for a stranger resided, and demolished phone booths, an exhausted Ivy came to a stop when Harley opened her eyes slightly. "R-Red?" she croaked.  
  
"Harley," Ivy answered, trying to smile. "You're still alive."  
  
"Are we home yet?" she asked. "I don't feel so good."  
  
Ivy felt droplets on her foot and looked down. The bandage around Harley's hand was so saturated with blood that it was now dripping onto the sidewalk. The blood had at least stopped running from Harley's injured nose; dried blood caked her upper lip. "Soon," she promised. "It's going to be all better soon." It _has_ to be, she thought to herself.  
  
"Joker," she struggled to say. "He wouldn't let me go. I was so . . . alone. Please, Ivy."  
  
"Please what?" she asked as she resumed staggering down the street.  
  
"Please don't leave me, Ivy. You're all I have." Harley's eyes flickered before her head slumped against Ivy's shoulder.  
  
Ivy would have panicked again if she hadn't felt Harley's heartbeat against her chest. "I promise," she whispered. "I'll try to be all you need."  
  
Just when she was about to give up, Ivy was stopped in her tracks by what had to be a mirage - a public pay phone. Stumbling towards it, she leaned against it and was gratified to feel the cool metal. "Guess I have a little good karma left after all," she murmured before gently lowering Harley to the pavement so that she lay next to the wall.  
  
Dialing 911, Ivy waited an interminable length of time before someone deigned to pick up. "Is this an emergency?" the woman asked.  
  
Ivy almost lost it right there. "Yes, damn it, it's an emergency!" she practically shouted. "I need an ambulance right now. My friend, she's been beaten really badly and she might die!"  
  
The dispatcher asked for the location and Ivy, after a moment of searching, gave her a general idea. She heard the woman become silent, undoubtedly noting what part of town this was and wondering if this was a scam. Ivy knew of cases where criminals had lured ambulances to remote locations and stripped them bare.  
  
"Look," Ivy went on impatiently, "if you don't get an ambulance down here quick, I will personally come over to where you work, find your cubicle, and snap your neck like a twig!"  
  
"Using this line when there isn't an emergency and making violent threats is against the law," the woman droned.  
  
"Fine," Ivy growled, "then send four police cars down here too and they can arrest me. Just send the goddamn ambulance!" And she almost slammed the phone down, but instead she let it hang from the receiver, figuring they might want to trace the call too.  
  
As the last of the adrenaline left her system, she was overcome with weariness. And as she anxiously inspected Harley, she felt the events of the last hour catch up with her.  
  
Turning away, she burst into sobs. She sounded totally lost and afraid and distraught, and it was a few minutes before she was able to collect herself and dry her tears. Then there was nothing left but to wait and hope that the police were good for something.   
  
Fifteen minutes later, just when her nerves were stretched to their limit, her ears perked up at the sound of a siren. Police car, maybe, or a fire somewhere, or . . .  
  
But instead, she got an ambulance that pulled up right in front of the pay phone. Rising to her feet, her knees wobbled but she managed to stand, clutching the phone for support.  
  
Two paramedics, one black, one white, got out. The first one came over and took one look at Harley's condition before turning his head. "Gurney, now!"  
  
Ivy wasn't one for begging, especially with a city employee, but she resorted to it now. "Tell me you can save her," she pleaded.  
  
"Damn right we can save her," he replied as he administered to Harley.  
  
"Uh, Terence?" the other paramedic asked as he came over with the stretcher.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You do realize that this is Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn we're dealing with? Notorious criminals and all?"  
  
"Uh-huh," he replied casually. "Hand me those bandages, wouldja?"  
  
The other man's nose twitched as he stared at Ivy.  
  
"He said, hand him the bandages," Ivy told him icily.  
  
Cringing, the second paramedic did as he was told.  
  
The first, older EMS man chuckled dryly. "Forgive him, Miss Ivy. He's still new to the job, so he's kind of a wuss."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"If you got a problem with that, then do your job and help me lift her onto the stretcher."  
  
He did so, but he was hesitant.   
  
As the first paramedic wheeled Harley toward the back of the emergency vehicle, Ivy leaned in close to the other one. "If you're wondering what I could do to you later, try worrying about what I could do to you now if anything happens to her," she whispered.  
  
Blanching, he somehow regained his enthusiasm for his work.  
  
Ivy sighed. Maybe, just _maybe_, their lives weren't over.  
  
To be continued . . . 


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (3/??)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Eventually Ivy noticed that she was the only person in the waiting room. She'd been sure this area had been moderately full when she arrived, although she'd been so driven to distraction that she probably wouldn't have noticed if half the Gotham police department had been there. Speaking of which, Harley Quinn being brought into a hospital emergency room by Poison Ivy should have attracted a little attention from the police, right? But that was a question for another time.  
  
Anyway, she did remember squeezing between two other people after being told she couldn't accompany Harley into the ER and, for some reason, accepting it. Without her noticing it, both those people had vanished. They all had.  
  
She looked down at herself and chuckled humorlessly. No matter how bad your injury was or how worried you were about your loved ones, would you stay in the same room with Poison Ivy, as clearly denoted by the bright red hair and midnight green costume? Didn't think so.  
  
Ivy didn't give a shit. She just wanted Harley to be better. Her head dropped into her hands again.  
  
"Ivy."  
  
She was so out of it, she actually thought a doctor was speaking to her. It wasn't until she raised her eyes that she realized she should have recognized the voice. And this certainly rendered her earlier question moot, didn't it?  
  
"Montoya. Bullock. Aren't the best detectives the ones working the day shift? Oops, I just answered my own question, didn't I?"  
  
"Commissioner thought these were special circumstances," Bullock muttered.  
  
"Commissioner _and_ circumstances? Detective, have you been taking remedial English courses?" Ivy asked snidely.  
  
His neck started turning red, and Renee Montoya smoothly interposed herself between the two. "What happened to Quinn?"  
  
Suddenly needling police officers lost all amusement, and Ivy scowled. "What do you think happened? Joker beat the shit out of her, more than usual, this time." She shook her head, cursing.  
  
"How'd you get involved?" Bullock asked.  
  
"I was looking for her. I heard the Joker escaped. I was worried for her," Ivy explained patiently.  
  
"The psycho clowns escaped together, so they could be together in their little love nest," Bullock sneered. Most cops had a low opinion of Harley and her Joker infatuation. "What did you have to worry about? And when the hell did you get out anyway?"  
  
If she were a fat tub of lard like him, her neck would have started turning red as well. But since he obviously knew a whole lot of nothing about what was going on, she decided to focus on his slightly more intelligent partner, who'd managed to come out on top of Ivy once or twice. "Harley escaped hours before the Joker, and it had nothing to do with him. I really didn't ask why he escaped; I was busy trying not to die. And I got out a few days ago. Doesn't Arkham keep you informed about _anything_?"  
  
"Arkham's a mess tonight," Montoya replied. "Two escapes in the same night, and plus something's going on with the head doctor, so we're not exactly getting a clear picture out of the asylum."  
  
Ivy chuckled. "Got my clean bill of health, officers. You can't touch me."  
  
"Even if I were to believe that cockamamie story of yours, _which_ I don't," Bullock retorted, "you being sane just means I can throw your ass in jail for harboring a fugitive and obstruction of justice."  
  
She shot to her feet. "What?!"  
  
"Well, if you know where the Joker is, why don't you tell us?"  
  
Ivy watched his face warily. "If I've got something you want, then why should I just hand it over?"  
  
"You little . . ."  
  
"All right, Bullock, that's enough."  
  
She blinked and turned her head. "You've got to be kidding me."  
  
"Where's the Joker, Ivy?" Jim Gordon asked her. "We lock him up the same night he gets out, and that's a lot of lives we save this week. And I'd think you'd be interested in seeing the Joker in custody, considering what he did to your friend."  
  
"I'm interested in seeing him in a box," she growled.  
  
"You're the same homicidal maniac you always were, Ivy," Bullock sneered. "Commish, she's claiming that Arkham just let her go, no questions."  
  
Gordon nodded. "It's still a madhouse at Arkham, no pun intended, but I've spoken with someone with more information, and right now, it's legit. Ms. Isley is a free woman, for at least a week, anyway."  
  
"No shit," Montoya murmured.  
  
The Bat, Ivy guessed mentally, was the someone in question.  
  
At this point, the person she'd been waiting for finally arrived - a doctor. "Excuse me, but I'm Dr. Coulson. Is there someone here I can talk to about Miss Quinn's condition?"  
  
"You can talk to me," Ivy replied instantly.  
  
The doctor eyed her doubtfully.  
  
"I'm Police Commissioner Gordon, doctor," Gordon said. "What's the status?"  
  
"Ah," he responded, evidently more willing to speak with him. "Why don't you step over here?"  
  
Ivy watched the two moving away, and seethed. She was closer to Quinn than a bunch of cops, why did _they_ get to talk to the doctors?  
  
Of course, only a few people knew just how close they were, didn't they?  
  
"Why don't you sit down, Ivy?" Montoya suggested. "None of us are going anywhere soon."  
  
"Unless I haul her butt in," Bullock grumbled.  
  
"How about you kiss my butt?" Ivy snapped.  
  
Gordon returned, fortunately. "Doctors aren't finished operating, but they think she might make it."  
  
Ivy stared at him for a moment before tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, thank you," she whispered to no one in particular.   
  
The three officers looked surprised by her reaction, and Gordon coughed into his fist. "Yes, well, Dr. Coulson says that the next twenty-four hours are the most crucial."  
  
"Gee, never heard that before," Bullock muttered.  
  
"And they're still waiting to receive Harley's medical files from Arkham," Gordon added. "Again, the chaos at the asylum isn't helping. The doctor said it could have been worse; she'd already had her spleen removed at some point in the past, so that was one thing less to worry about. But she's lost a lot of blood, and the chance she won't need an organ transplant is slim."  
  
Somehow, Ivy didn't think Harley would be very high on the donor list, and she made a mental note to look into kidneys on the black market.  
  
And speaking of Harley's criminal history . . . "How long will Harley be allowed to stay here?" she asked.  
  
Gordon blinked. "She can't be moved from here until her doctor gives the go-ahead, and it's not like there's a rush just yet, so we probably won't have Miss Quinn sent over to the Arkham infirmary for at least three or four days."  
  
Ivy knew the severity of Harley's injuries, and there was no way in hell she would be leaving her to the care of those hacks at Arkham. "You want the Joker?" she asked, reaching a decision. "Then I want a deal."  
  
Bullock's face showed just how much he thought of her response, but Gordon was calling the shots at that moment. "And what is it you want in exchange?"  
  
"Harley gets to stay at this hospital for as long as it takes until she can walk out those doors with a clean bill of health," she told him, pointing to the ER doors she had entered through earlier. "And when that day comes, she leaves with me, not with you."  
  
"This ain't no free clinic, Ivy," Bullock growled. "No way the hospital, or the city, is going to foot the bill for an escaped psycho."  
  
"Think of it as an expenditure for the public good," she shot back. "You do know what an expenditure is, don't you?"  
  
"All right, Bullock, the Commissioner will take it from here," Montoya said placatingly, pulling him aside as his cheeks inflated. "Only he has the authority for something like this."  
  
"Bitch," he said under his breath.  
  
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Renee replied, knowing who he was referring to.  
  
Gordon looked down at Ivy and sighed. "If you really want the arrest warrant against Harley rescinded, you'll have to give me more than just the Joker's whereabouts. Correction - _last known_ whereabouts."  
  
Ivy recognized that her information was by now somewhat outdated. Pursued by a pair of carnivorous animals, he might have fled anywhere. "The day Harley leaves here with me," she now said slowly, "she and I leave Gotham. Permanently." This idea had been no more than a germ on the ambulance ride, but now it seemed more plausible.   
  
The Joker would come after them as long as they were alive. But he also had a pathological need to defeat Batman once and for all, and to do that, he needed to stay in Gotham. But if they were in another part of the country, then as long as the Bat kept him chained in Gotham (and that didn't appear to be stopping any time soon), he couldn't pursue them. And to be honest, it would be good getting Harley away from the town and its criminals, its jails and asylums, its police officers, and its reporters. Not to mention, time away from the Joker, and their connection would daily grow more distant.  
  
For that matter, why had Ivy bothered to remain in this damned city? It was a paved-over shit stain where nothing was permitted to grow. Perhaps, she admitted ruefully, she also had a pathological need to top the Batman.  
  
Gordon, meanwhile, had been less than impressed. "So you can prey upon a new target? I never was one to shuttle my problems onto someone else's shoulders."  
  
"Gotham seems to draw 'costumed criminals' like a magnet, Gordon," she pointed out. "Surely a city the size of Gotham, like New York or Philadelphia, can handle a tenth of the number this city has."  
  
He chewed on that for a minute. "I won't promise anything," he began.  
  
"You'd better promise," she hissed. "Because I was promised a week with her, and now she might die because she picked the wrong time to decide that she'd wasted years on the twisted bastard who put her in here. _Someone_ is going to make me a promise, and it will be _kept_." She had grabbed him by the wrist and was squeezing it tightly.  
  
Gordon managed to break her grip. "I promise," he finally told her, "not to have you or Harley Quinn arrested in the future, so long as you don't break the law for the remainder of your life here in Gotham, _and_ as long as you give me the Joker. If you put him in a pine box instead of a cell, I'll see that Harley goes back to the asylum while you go to prison," he warned her.  
  
Ivy stared at him. "How much did the Bat tell you?"  
  
"Enough."  
  
She looked down and gave him the address. "He's pissed tonight," she added.  
  
"It's morning," he corrected her.  
  
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was now almost four A.M. "But he's wounded, Commissioner. I took a piece of his ear, and last I saw, he was being chewed on by the hyenas," she continued.  
  
He looked surprised. "His own pets turned on him?"  
  
"Well, I guess Harley had sole custody of the babies all along," she replied. "Don't look at me, I don't do well with animals."  
  
"Commissioner Gordon," Dr. Coulson spoke up from behind. His distressed look chilled Ivy.  
  
"I have somewhere to go, doctor," Gordon said. "What is it?"  
  
"I realize that we're dealing with special circumstances tonight," Coulson answered, "but he just stands there watching, and it's very distracting for the other doctors."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Batman. No one even saw him enter intensive care. He only says he wants to see, well, her." He pointed at Ivy, obviously as intimidated by her presence as the paramedic had been earlier.  
  
"Then take her to him," Gordon said impatiently. "I have someone bigger to worry about." He got up to go.  
  
Ivy also stood up. "Guess you'd better tell everyone it's safe to wait in here again," she said dryly before she left with the doctor.  
  
Jim Gordon watched them go and sighed. Poison Ivy was as hard to read as they came.  
_________________________________  
  
If having the Bat standing in the middle of the ICU was distracting, Ivy privately wondered, then adding her to the mix probably wasn't going to make things better. But it seemed civilians jumped with the same speed as the common hoodlums did when Batman spoke.  
  
Then she saw Harley and her breath lodged in her throat.  
  
The blonde woman was still heavily sedated. Her costume had been cut from her body and was long gone. Her left hand was in a cast, and her stomach bore the marks of having just been opened and stitched back up. Her face was swollen and purple in the places she could see; the rest was thickly bandaged and probably looked even worse. And of course, there were the requisite tubes and IV drips and wires keeping the doctors and nurses in touch with her vital signs. Ivy didn't see how she could be moved at all, not for days.  
  
Batman said nothing as she came up behind him, although she knew he'd heard her arrive. "I'm sick of fucking hospitals and operating rooms," she said loudly enough for a few staffers to stop what they were doing and look at her. Then they busied themselves with their work.  
  
"Did you tell him where he is?" he asked.  
  
"Of course," she said. "It's not like I have the time right now to hunt him down."  
  
"You'd better not," he replied. "If the Joker died at your hands because you sought him out . . ."  
  
"Yes, yes, I know," she retorted. "They'll swap my Plexiglas cell for one with bars."  
  
"And is it getting through to you?"  
  
She nodded silently. She wanted to take Harley's hand, but she was afraid to touch her for fear of disrupting something, anything.  
  
Now he watched them both. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "This is not how I wanted tonight to turn out for any of us."  
  
"It's morning," she responded absently. Then she blinked. "Sorry, my brain isn't functioning too well. I'm starting to repeat what I hear."  
  
Batman noticed that Dr. Coulson had unhappily been watching the entire time, but that for all his fidgeting, no one else really seemed to mind the intruders. "Worked here long, Doctor?" he asked.  
  
The physician looked up. "What? Uh, no, three months. Why?"  
  
"You'll have to get used to Gotham's kind of interruptions a lot faster if you want to survive as an ER doctor," he answered. "How about you find an empty room for Ms. Isley to get some rest in? She's been up all night."  
  
Dr. Coulson, who lacked the aplomb and adaptability that age and experience would hopefully give him, stared at him while his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Uh . . ."  
  
"A room. With a bed. And a door. Now."  
  
"Yes, sir," he whimpered, wilting further under the patented stare. "It will just be a minute," he added before getting on the phone.  
  
"I don't need . . ." she protested, but she was rapidly exhausting all her physical and mental reserves.  
  
"You can't stay here like this," he interrupted. "Get a few hours' sleep. Then you can come back and sit by her side for as long as you like. You can even hold her hand," he mentioned. "It won't kill her."  
  
Ivy looked at him. A very tiny part of her wanted to feel grateful for this - for everything over the last few hours, actually. But she'd hated him for a very long time now, and she couldn't bring herself to feel gratitude. "Thank you," she did mutter, but she assured herself that she didn't mean it one bit.  
  
She did look one last time at Harley, however. How much she wished she could exchange places with her. Harley had suffered enough at _his_ hands; dying from one last beating could not, _would_ not be her epitaph.   
  
And so, as she walked slowly from intensive care, her former doctor's diagnosis proved to be a bit more mistaken.  
____________________________________  
  
Ivy watched through the window as a team of highly professional doctors hunched over Harley's still form and performed delicate surgery. Only her head was visible, which was more than Ivy could say about the surgeons. All she could see were the back of their heads, as hidden as they were by green smocks and bonnets and facemasks.  
  
"Please, please," she whispered under her breath over and over.  
  
Finally the one who appeared to be in charge straightened. She heard his back pop. "All right, boys, it looks like we lost her." He tugged at his gloves and they snapped off.  
  
Horrified, Ivy grabbed at the wall and managed to stay on her feet. She couldn't move. She couldn't even fall down.  
  
"Another success, boys," the doctor continued. He glanced at the clock as Ivy tried to process what was happening. "Let the record show that at six twenty-seven A.M., Miss Quinn has no pulse." He paused. "Either that or my watch is broken."  
  
The other doctors chortled loudly as Ivy was struck dumb. What . . .  
  
The doctor removed his cap and mask. His ruby lips and white cheeks gleamed in the harsh light of the operating room. Smiling at her, the Joker waved. Then, reaching down where she couldn't see, he pulled out a red, bloody, beating mass of muscle.   
  
"Oh - my - god."  
  
His lips pulled back to reveal teeth that were silver and jagged, like a monstrous machine. Opening wide, he took a great bite from Harley's heart and chewed, obviously savoring it.  
  
"NO!!!!!"  
  
Ivy almost flew out of her bed before she caught herself, gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life. It took almost thirty seconds to get her pounding heart to calm down a little. Then she realized that she had had an awful nightmare.  
  
"Harley," she whispered. "I have to keep her safe." Not knowing how long she'd slept, she leapt out of bed and stumbled toward the door of the hospital room she'd been given. She would not leave her side again.  
  
Yanking the door open, she caught Renee Montoya in mid-knock. "What?" Ivy asked, startled.  
  
The Hispanic woman looked grim. "I'm sorry, but the Joker wasn't where you said he'd be."  
  
"Damn it!" she almost screeched, before getting her voice under control. "He was there, I'm telling you."  
  
"We know," Montoya assured her. "We found a lot of blood, and some of his things, and the hyenas. One of them had been shot in the leg, but we've got the vets at Animal Control working on him."  
  
"So he's out there."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And when he finds out where Harley is, he'll come for her."  
  
"Probably."  
  
Montoya thought Ivy's expression was totally unreadable. Most people would have been distraught to know that a killer who wanted them dead was still loose. But Poison Ivy was not most people.  
  
"Before you ask yourself if you could find him before we do," Montoya went on, challenging Ivy, "there's a couple things you should consider."  
  
"Like what?" Ivy asked, not bothering to deny or confirm Montoya's suggestion.  
  
"Like the Commissioner is back, and he wants to speak to you."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Are you more interested in getting him, or protecting her?"  
  
Ivy paused. Last night, saving her had been the primary consideration. That had not changed, she admitted to herself. "Protecting her."  
  
"Then maybe you can't do that if you're sniffing around Gotham for the Joker."  
  
She grunted, frustrated. "Just take me to Gordon, all right?" She _would_ find a solution.  
  
To be continued . . .  
  
(Author's Note - Thanks to Jen, for reminding me of Ivy's comment about how "nothing grows in Gotham".) 


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (4/??)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"How are the babies? I mean, her pets?" These were the first words out of Ivy's mouth when she and Detective Montoya encountered Commissioner Gordon just inside the entrance to the emergency room. Twenty-four hours ago she would never have felt such a level of concern for a couple of animals who she associated more with the Joker than Harley. Now, however, she recognized that the "babies" evidently preferred Harley over their master, and after they'd saved her from the Joker's wrath, she could be more considerate. Plus, it wouldn't help Harley's recovery if she learned her former "puddin" had killed one of them.  
  
"If she recovers," came the whispered reply in the back of her head. If she could have, she would have savagely choked the life out of the speaker.  
  
"They're fine," Gordon replied gruffly, no doubt more worried about future human casualties. "One has a limp now, but that's all. I'm surprised you're not more interested in your friend's condition."  
  
Montoya chuckled. "In spite of your request that she come see you as soon as possible, first she dragged me down to the ICU to check on her."  
  
Ivy thought that, after the nightmare she'd had, she could be forgiven for being additionally fearful for Harley's life.  
  
"Hm," he said, wrinkling his mustache.   
  
"So, where's Beefsteak?" she asked, noticing Bullock wasn't around.  
  
"_Detective Bullock_ is still searching for the Joker, as well as running operations at the crime scene," Gordon said testily.  
  
Ivy only smiled innocently and said nothing.  
  
"As long as he's out there, both of your lives are in danger," he added.  
  
"As I recall, Harley's life is still in danger whether the Joker comes after her or not," Ivy shot back.  
  
"Her doctor says they'll move her to a private room as soon as they upgrade her status," Gordon said. "We'll be able to guard her better there."  
  
Ivy snorted. "What makes you think he'll come for her here, when he can just wait for her to be released into Arkham's custody? He'll probably have himself committed when that happens."  
  
"The Joker isn't a rational person."  
  
"The Joker likes to torture people before he kills them. He won't have that luxury in a hospital filled with police officers."  
  
Gordon glared at her. "You don't really care what the Joker does while he's out, just as long as he gets what you think is coming to him."  
  
"He could leave a swath of destruction through this hospital," she said coldly, "as long as he fell into my hands before getting to Harley's room."  
  
"Keep talking like that," he warned her, "and I'll have your visitation rights revoked. You can't protect your girlfriend if I decide not to let you."  
  
A red haze dropped over her vision. No one threatened her, least of all a two-bit civil appointee who depended on a flying bat to keep crime rates below "anarchy". She didn't need a special plant to bring this man to the floor and throttle him with his own tie.  
  
But if they wanted to keep her away from Harley, eventually they could.   
  
Slowly she got herself settled down. Lately she'd been able to keep her homicidal instincts in check by honestly examining how it would affect Harley's best interests. So far it appeared to have paid off.   
  
Ivy only hoped she could keep it up the next time it counted.  
  
"Fine," she grumbled. "You're the boss." She tasted something vile in her mouth.  
  
"Well then," Gordon decided, while Montoya watched Ivy intently, prepared to take her into custody if the need arose. "We put a round-the-clock guard on Harley until she's released. After that, she's your responsibility."  
  
"Which is another reason why we're getting the fuck out of this town," she replied. "Joker can rot in Gotham for all I care. He will never go near my Harley again."  
  
Renee started. "_Your_ Harley?"  
  
"Someone informed me that Harley and Ivy," Gordon explained dryly, "have reached a new understanding in their relationship."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Harley's traded up," Ivy added.  
  
Montoya finally understood. "Really," she murmured, more intrigued than surprised. "Harley Quinn leaves Joker for Poison Ivy. When the press gets a hold of this, they're going to have a field day - the ultimate romantic triangle."  
  
"It's not romantic when one of the three is a homicidal lunatic stalker," Ivy muttered.  
  
Then it hit her.  
  
"The press is just going to eat this up," she whispered.  
  
"Well, there's no reason for the more personal information to leak out," Gordon pointed out, "and the Joker has put Quinn in the hospital before, so it's not like they're going to be that interested . . ."  
  
"Actually," she said thoughtfully, realizing that she knew how to protect Harley and annihilate the Joker at the same time, "I think it's time I came out of the closet."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I happen to know a thing or two about what homicidal rage does to a person. They get stupid."  
_________________________________  
  
The Joker tore the bandage from the roll with his teeth and winced as he tightened the wrappings around his wrist. Those damned ungrateful . . . you never bit the hand that fed you! It wasn't done!  
  
Of course, it wasn't actually _his_ hand that fed the hyenas. He left those menial tasks to - he couldn't say her name. That _whore_ always fed those animals.   
  
"Maybe I should have thrown them a steak once or twice," he thought out loud. But it was his money that paid for their dinner. They should have known that, damn it!  
  
Well, when he got some new pets, he'd feed them himself. Or at least, he'd make sure they knew they only got fed when he told people to do it. Maybe a piranha in a fishbowl, like that comic strip.  
  
Perhaps the hyenas shouldn't have been the top thing on his mind at that moment, after the other revelations of the night before. But his mind didn't work like other people's. And there was no point thinking about that bitch, because she was dead. She had to be; therefore, she was.  
  
"Pammy," he murmured. An ugly look filled his eyes. "You'll be my very own bonsai tree. Careful pruning should keep you alive for weeks." The Joker chuckled, then whined as he accidentally put weight on his injured ankle. He fell back into the recliner, once again in a thoroughly bad mood.  
  
So instead he put the television volume back on, just in time for the twelve o'clock news. He wanted to see what they were saying about him.  
  
Summer Gleeson's face filled the screen. She'd never shown his comedic talents proper respect on her news program. Maybe if he left himself a Post-It, he'd remember to kill her one of these days.  
  
"And our top story is another late-night escape from Arkham Asylum. This time it's the Joker, once again on the loose in Gotham. We've all heard that time and again, haven't we?"  
  
"Duh," he muttered. He'd been planning to bust out after he'd heard Har - the slut - escaped without him, but that night, he'd just _sensed_ that it was a good time to make his move. Evidently his instincts had been correct; he'd made good time last night.  
  
"But today, we have a double scandalous twist," she went on. "First, reports leaking out of Arkham indicate that the head of Arkham Asylum, Dr. Park, is stepping down under less-than-savory circumstances."  
  
The Joker chuckled. The next Arkham head to last a year would be the first. And his instincts were definitely still first-rate.  
  
"Even juicier," Summer continued, "is the prospect that Harley Quinn, longtime obsessed fan and loyal henchwoman to the Joker . . ."  
  
He perked up. Had they found her body already?   
  
" . . . is cutting her ties to her 'Mr. J' once and for all. Now recuperating from what police describe as a particularly vicious assault by the Joker at an unnamed hospital, Miss Quinn will be supplying authorities with the most secret details about the criminal mastermind and his operations as soon as she is physically able."  
  
The Joker stared at the television, the shock clearly evident on her face and growing. She couldn't, she wouldn't!  
  
"Including," the anchorwoman had continued, "locations of his hideouts, secret bank accounts, future plans, and other information she's never given to _anyone_. How long, I wonder," she added slyly, "before the agents and publishers start calling?"  
  
Without noticing, he'd begun pulling the stuffing out of his chair with his uninjured hand.  
  
"The police aren't confirming," Summer pointed out, "but anonymous sources also say the reason behind Miss Quinn's defection is not so much the Joker's attempt on her life, as it is the arrival of a new someone in her life. Apparently the Joker wasn't the perfect man for her after all."  
  
Filled to the brim with a towering, volcanic, almost nuclear rage, the Joker rose to his full height and put his foot through the television screen and Summer Gleeson's smug face.  
  
He howled, not in anger, but in pain. He'd just used the wrong foot to kick his TV.   
_______________________________________  
  
While the powers-that-be attempted to return some semblance of order to Arkham (or rather, what went for order there), most of the inmates had been relegated to the recreation area. They were watched over by several employees in a heightened state of anxiety, refusing to tell the prisoners anything.  
  
Not that any of this was really necessary, as it happened. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if the Joker wasn't there, then he'd probably escaped. And since the Arkham big shots were clustered around the television, they were getting everything they needed to know from local news. And besides, they weren't going anywhere. It was too much fun watching their doctors and guards acting like headless chickens.  
  
They were also having a good laugh at the Joker's expense.   
  
"Looks like Joker's private piece of ass finally got smart," Killer Croc chortled loudly.  
  
"Guess she got tired of getting smacked around," Two-Face volunteered.  
  
"After all these years? I thought it turned her on, or sumthin'," Croc replied.  
  
Truth be told, most of the Rogues had a hard-on for their female counterparts, and the fact that the Joker had Harley draped all over him, even though he treated her like shit, created a lot of resentment. Now, however, they fantasized out loud about Harley and her "availability".  
  
"Stupid hairstyle, and always keeping that face of hers covered up," Scarface was saying now, "but that body? I got wood just lookin' at her."  
  
"You'd get wood looking at the dummy, Scarface, seeing as how that's what your pecker's made of," Two-Face sneered.  
  
The others laughed uproariously.  
  
"So who's this new somebody in her life, then? Not any of you clowns," Scarface retorted angrily.  
  
"Quite a . . ."  
  
"Don't say it, Nigma."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"It would have to be someone at Stonegate," the Scarecrow suggested. "Not even we're crazy enough to put moves on Harley while the Joker's around."  
  
"Maybe that Bane character," Scarface suggested. "He's got that Latin lover thing workin' for him."  
  
As the others debated Harley's new mystery man in boisterous and extremely crude language, Professor Crane quietly considered what was, as the Riddler would have said if permitted, a fine riddle. He felt he knew Harley about as well as anyone. And he couldn't see her even looking at another man.   
  
He chuckled to himself as the discussion shifted once more to enraptured thoughts on Harley's body, along with the other women of Gotham. He admitted to himself that he wasn't all that interested. He didn't think of women as sexual objects. About the only thing that turned him on was fear. Poison Ivy was another favorite of the boys, although if she'd been here, this discussion would never have started - she had a way of intimidating . . .  
  
Crane drew up short. Who was the one person Harley ever spent a great deal of time with, besides the Joker? Who was the one person no one, including the highly possessive Joker, would ever suspect of being romantically involved with Harley, on the grounds that this person was a "she"? And who wasn't in Arkham today?  
  
A slow smile spread across his face. "So, gentlemen, have we reached a verdict about Harley's new obsession?"  
  
The Riddler glanced his way. "Two-Face and Croc have a wager. One thousand dollars that it's either Bane or Clayface."  
  
"Dear me," he replied. "Is Clayface even anatomically compatible?"  
  
"Who knows? All Two-Face knows is, he could make himself look like the Joker, so maybe that's how he seduced her. And Croc still insists that she got her kicks from being beaten, so he thinks she'll go for Bane and his venom-induced strength."  
  
"Perhaps the venom's potency affects him in _other_ ways," Crane suggested.  
  
Riddler blinked. "Oh, now that wouldn't be very fair."  
  
But the Scarecrow stood up and went over to the bettors. "Mind if I add my thousand bucks to the pot?"  
  
"Sure, perfesser," Croc replied. "You got a name, or you just betting on one of ours?"  
  
"A thousand dollars," he said loudly enough for most everyone to hear, "on Poison Ivy."  
  
Everyone looked at him. Then Killer Croc guffawed. "Hell, Crane, she's a woman! Sure, everyone tells stories about them two, but Quinn's been with a guy for years! What, she changed her mind all of a sudden?"  
  
But Two-Face considered Crane carefully, fingering his coin. And he wasn't the only one.  
  
"A thousand on Ivy," he repeated.  
  
"We got your marker then," Two-Face growled. "How 'bout another bet? Ten thousand Joker kills Harley and her mystery 'person' before the week is out."  
  
There were no takers.  
________________________________________  
  
The Joker snarled in animalistic rage as he struggled to his feet, after rolling on the floor, clutching his ankle. "She thinks she can cuckold me for the front page? With another woman?!" Visions of people laughing at him, instead of with him, danced in his head.  
  
He sneered. "I should thank her doctors for saving her for me, so I can kill her all over again."   
  
And he laughed, even as he mulled over a very important question - who should he kill first? Because who would get the chance to see the other die?  
________________________________________  
  
"How long do you think it'll take before the press finds out which hospital we're keeping her at?" Bullock asked Montoya.  
  
"Not long at all," she replied. "We're trying to make it easy on them. That way, they'll make it easier for the Joker to find us. And then we got him."  
  
"Slick," he said. "So that little clown is really getting it on with Ivy? Didn't think plant lady liked people enough to consider it."  
  
"I guess so," Montoya responded, sighing. "We only have Ivy's word for it. For all we know, Quinn will wake up and ask for her Mr. J."  
  
Bullock nodded. "Ain't it the truth." He looked around. "I just got in. Where they keeping Ivy, anyway?"  
  
"Well, she's . . . she was over there a minute ago," Montoya said, frowning. "She must have gone to check on Quinn. She does that every so often."  
  
It would be a couple hours before anyone realized just how long it had been since they'd seen Ivy last. And by that time, she was nearly finished with her work.  
  
To be continued . . . 


	5. Chapter Five

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (5/6)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter 5  
  
Ivy whistled softly as she approached the hospital entrance. In her faded blue jeans and pink top, pocketbook over one shoulder and shopping bag in the other hand, she could have been anyone. Certainly not Poison Ivy, menace to society provocatively dressed in midnight green.  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
She froze in midstep and nearly stumbled, catching herself in time. Then she glanced behind her.  
  
Batman leaned against the brick wall, in the area normally reserved to doctors and nurses who, even in their positions, still couldn't kick the smoking habit. Needless to say, Batman's presence had chased them away as effectively as Ivy had cleared the waiting room the night before.  
  
Of course, she thought, frowning. She could have dressed as a nun and he would have known it was her. "Why, has something happened?" Nothing could have gone wrong while she was gone, could it?  
  
"The police were a little concerned that you might have gone off on your personal vendetta after all," he replied.   
  
"It would be Harley's vendetta if she were able to wake up," Ivy shot back.  
  
"Her leaving the Joker is one thing," he said coolly. "Her exacting payback for the things the Joker does to her is another. This is all about your need for revenge."  
  
"And so what?" she hissed. "One, if Harley won't stand up for herself, someone has to do it for her. And two, our discussion is irrelevant, because I don't know where the Joker is, I haven't seen him all day, and I didn't come up with a plan to get him, only to go chasing after him." She folded her arms, so that the shopping bag rested against her thighs. "And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought bats stayed in during the day."  
  
"Special circumstances," he responded, reaching out and pulling the bag from her fingers.   
  
"Watch it!" Ivy snapped as she attempted to hold on but failed. "It's just something for her room when she gets one."  
  
He eyed the plant which he'd extracted from the bag carefully. "It looks familiar."  
  
"It's the shooting-star vine I created for Harley - " Had it really been so few days ago? "You probably saw her test it out on me after my chip was removed."  
  
"It's traveled a lot for such a little plant," the Bat answered, handing it back.  
  
"Is there something else?" she asked. "Because I wasn't planning on leaving the hospital again until the Joker makes his appearance."  
  
The Batman quickly rifled through her purse. "Lipstick?" he asked, holding a tube up. "The special kind?"  
  
She snatched it from his fingertips. "No. Kissing that shit wouldn't be worth it." Ivy shoved it back into the handbag before returning the plant back to the bag. "Do I clear customs now?"  
  
"If you make another unscheduled trip, I'll know it," he warned her.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered.  
  
As she entered the hospital, almost the very first thing she saw was Bullock's large frame. "Where the hell have you been, Isley? We were ready to put an APB on you."  
  
"Be better if you put one out on your toes, Bullock," she responded snidely. "You could suck that gut in as far as it goes, and you still wouldn't see them." Already putting him out of her mind, she brushed past him as she headed for the elevators, fingering what were in her jeans pocket.  
  
He glared at the back of her head. "I can see my toes," he growled. "Well, sorta."  
_______________________________________  
  
"Ninth floor," the janitor told him furtively, glancing around. "There have to be at least a dozen cops walking in circles. And there are never less than three within two steps of Room 926."  
  
"Right," the tabloid reporter answered, pulling a small notebook out of his beat-up trenchcoat and taking notes. "Anything else suspicious?"  
  
The janitor thought back. It was almost nine P.M., his shift was over, and this hack was offering five hundred bucks for the location of the Joker's twisted sidekick. Apparently everyone wanted to scoop the competition for her story.  
  
"Yeah," he remembered. "Sixth floor, Room 638."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"They got one officer sitting by the door when I looked around six. He wasn't there when I went by before four, so it's a new patient. I don't know who, though, and there aren't a whole lotta nurses or doctors around."  
  
The reporter nodded thoughtfully. "That's where they're keeping her," he said out loud.  
  
"Huh? I just told you, it's like an army on the ninth floor."  
  
"Fully staffed nurses' station?"  
  
The janitor looked blank for a second. "Yeah, I guess. Only thing out of place are all the cops, actually."  
  
"The Joker's a sadistic killer, Ben," the reporter explained calmly. "He likes killing. Thinks innocent bystanders getting iced is the height of irony. And the Commissioner knows it. So you think he'd have a lot of hospital employees standing around where they could get gassed or shot?"  
  
Ben thought about it. "No, I guess not."  
  
"Classic reverse psychology, Benjamin. It's all just to make the Joker _think_ Quinn's on the ninth floor, when they've really got her stashed on the sixth. But they can't leave her alone, so they give her the one guard. That was their mistake. Trust me, if there's one thing I've learned about, it's psychology." He chuckled.  
  
"If you say so, you're the writer," Ben said. "So, you said five hundred, right?"  
  
"Five Benjamins, Benjamin," the reporter confirmed, grinning broadly. "You take credit cards?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"No? How about playing cards?" Deftly the Joker removed a razor-sharp card from his coat pocket and cut his throat from ear to ear, giving him a smile broad enough to top his own. Not even having time to be surprised, Ben dropped to his knees and fell flat on his face.  
  
The Joker shook his head pityingly. "A little make-up, a little hair color, and they assume you're not the Joker. See, Benny, when you assume, you make an ASS out of YOU and . . . well, just you, actually." Snickering, he pulled the man's janitor uniform off before depositing him in the dumpster nearby.   
  
Five minutes later, he was pushing a cart down the corridors of the hospital, whistling a merry tune.  
_____________________________________  
  
"Gee, this window cleaner is good at removing face paint," the Joker said to himself as he used the paper towels and Windex he'd liberated from the janitor's cart to wipe the makeup from his face.  
  
He was now on the sixth floor, and as Benny had promised, there was just the one guard, sitting in a chair and staring straight ahead. Uniformed police were all alike - they acted like sheep. Tell them to guard a door, and they didn't leave unless they had to take a leak.  
  
"Imagine the utility belt I could make from this cart," he murmured, not worried about anyone surprising him on this floor. It was quiet and relatively deserted, and since his hair and the back of his neck were still flesh-colored, no one was going to notice him as they walked behind him. "Ammonia, Drano, bleach - who needs a Molotov cocktail? I'll mix Harley a Procter & Gamble cocktail."  
  
He'd decided to kill Harley first. He'd shatter Ivy's morale by outsmarting the police and their oh-so-tricky plans. Devastated and alone, she'd be easy meat. He was thinking of torturing her along herbal lines - tear her hair out by the _roots_, beat her with a _sap_, set fire to her _bush_, etc.  
  
As for Harley, well, there were always wannabes. And to be honest, since last night, he'd acquired a new "taste" for her. And parts of her body were juicier and more tender than her back.  
  
Smiling pleasantly, he retrieved his new squirt bottle, filled with chemicals to be found in your very own kitchen, along with the hardware he'd brought with him, and made his way toward the policeman.  
  
When the sound of his footsteps reached the officer's ears, he turned his head slowly. "Oh God, it's the Joker," he yelped, and then, surprisingly enough, he promptly turned around and ran away.  
  
The Joker watched him go. Asking a sheep to guard against wolves . . . he sighed. Wasn't he worth more of an effort?   
  
Shrugging, he pushed the door open and stepped in. Harley was curled into a fetal position on the hospital bed, hidden from view by her sheets. There was no one else in the room.  
  
"I wonder what ever happened to Ivy, anyway," he asked out loud as he approached the bed. "Maybe I'll find her in Arkham, crazy bitch. Going up against me?" he added in mock surprise, putting a hand to his chest. "Doctor, I think my wife's insane!"  
  
He didn't really notice how empty the room looked. There were not the usual machines they hooked severely injured patients to, the EKGs and IVs. But then, his eyes were for Harley only.  
  
Trembling slightly, he reached out to whip the blanket aside.  
__________________________________  
  
"Commissioner Gordon! Commissioner Gordon!"  
  
Gordon and Montoya turned toward the sound. "Officer Riley!" Gordon said, startled. "We've been trying to get you on your radio for over an hour. Where the hell have you been?"  
  
Stopping in front of Gordon, Officer Riley stared straight ahead. "Commissioner, the Joker is on the sixth floor, Room 638!"  
  
"What?!" he said out loud. "What is he doing down there? Officer, are you sure?"  
  
"Commissioner, the Joker is on the sixth floor, Room 638!"  
  
"Yes, I think we heard you the first time, Officer."  
  
"Wait," Montoya said, interrupting her boss. She snapped her fingers in front of Riley's eyes, but there was no reaction. So she tried shaking him by both shoulders. "Riley! Snap out of it!"  
  
After a few hard shakes, he flopped his head back and forth for a minute before blinking furiously. "Commissioner!" he said, surprised, jumping back.  
  
"Officer, just what is going on here? What happened to you?" Gordon ordered.  
  
He looked confused. "I don't know, sir. The last hour is kinda fuzzy."  
  
"And what about the Joker?"  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"You just told us he's in Room 638!"  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Officer?" Montoya asked him. "Where are your revolver and nightstick?"  
  
They all look down at his belt, which was definitely missing some rather important items.  
  
He looked stricken. "I, uh . . ."  
  
She leaned forward and sniffed him. "Officer, if I said you smelled like lipstick, would you happen to know why?"  
  
"Uh, no, Detective. Although now I kinda wish I did."  
  
"Ivy," Gordon growled, and after he'd decided to keep her out of Quinn's room for fear of her interfering with the arrest. "Shit! Detective, take six men and get down to the sixth floor immediately!"  
_____________________________________  
  
The Joker reared back. "What?"  
  
Ivy smiled sweetly at him, even as she struggled to keep her surprise held tightly against her midsection. "Does this answer your question?" she asked before taking the tangled bundle of angrily twisting vines in both hands and hurling it at him.  
  
Startled, he dropped what he was carrying and caught it. It wouldn't have mattered. Freed from its confinement against Ivy's arms and body, the vines found room to expand and whipped around his own arms.   
  
He screeched as they uncoiled briefly before grabbing hold of him and pinning his arms to his body. They grew, and they grew, and they _grew_, until he was completely trapped within its embrace. Within a minute, they had covered his whole body, so that she couldn't see his face anymore.  
  
She rested her tired arms for a moment before picking up the handgun and nightstick she'd absconded with earlier. "My, how they do grow," she murmured. After a moment's thought, while he suffocated under the constricting vines, she put down the club and got a pair of pruning shears she'd brought along.   
  
Ivy cut away the vines from his mouth and eyes, though not so carefully that she didn't leave cuts behind.  
  
"Ow! You b - "  
  
He stopped talking when she put the gun in his face.  
  
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly. "It'll hurt worse in a minute. Trust me. You see, it's my own personal stash of poison ivy. Oh sure, it doesn't look like it . . ."  
  
His shriek could be heard throughout the sixth floor as the vines, no longer able to elongate, now grew outwardly by growing thorns long enough to puncture clothing and skin.  
  
"But the spikes will secrete a resin into your bloodstream that will give you a full body rash to last you two weeks or more," she informed him. "And I mean, _full body_. Try not to scratch too much; you'll leave scars. You don't want scars on that tiny little penis of yours, do you?"  
  
He didn't even bother trying to talk. He just panted heavily and gave her a stare that left her in no doubt that he would hate her forever.  
  
Her hand trembled as she cocked the revolver. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," she whispered, "bringing me a wealth of personal satisfaction."  
  
The Joker eyed her nervously. "Uh, heh heh, if I'm dead, I won't go through two weeks of horrible itching and scarring?"  
  
Ivy stopped. "Fair enough," she decided. Truth be told, there was also the whole "life in prison" downside. She could always bust out, but then she'd be a fugitive for the rest of her life. Right now (as far as she knew), she was still free. If the Commissioner kept his deal, Harley would be, too. They could be free together.  
  
Sighing regretfully, she put the gun aside. "Enjoy the calamine baths," she added, getting up.  
  
"I'll find you," he hissed, shaking in his prison. "I'll find yoouuuu," he crooned. "And when I do, I'll have no compunctions about killing you both."  
  
She turned to face him, tapping the nightstick against her palm. This gave him pause.  
  
"You know, Harley told me about the time you had her replaced with an actress? And she beat you senseless with a policeman's club? I thought it might have been a turning point in your relationship. I thought, 'Now he'll know not to lay a finger on her again.' And instead, you went on smiling and crooking your finger, and she always came running."   
  
"I learned to hate your smile, Joker. I hated seeing it every time you humiliated her, or hurt her, or denigrated her talents. She was your closest friend, and naturally your most frequent target. That kind of gratitude deserves to be repaid."  
  
"Go ahead and beat me," he muttered. "It's been done before."  
  
"I wouldn't bother," she replied. "I'd just be hurting the plant. I'd have to hit you somewhere without any vines in the way."  
  
He stared at her, saying nothing. In fact, it was all he could do, his lips were pressed so tightly together.  
  
Kneeling on top of him, she took the billy club in both hands and brought it up.  
  
"You'll never smile at her expense again, _puddin'_," she whispered.  
____________________________  
  
As Montoya led the officers down the corridor, having taken three flights of emergency stairs down, she could hear screaming and screeching coming from the direction she was headed. "Hurry!" she shouted.  
  
But it ended before she got halfway there.  
  
Montoya and at least four other officers all pulled their guns as the door opened and someone came out. "Freeze! Drop your weapon!"  
  
Ivy looked innocent as she casually flung the nightstick to one side. "Freeze? You have me confused with someone else. I'm Ivy."  
  
"Very funny," Montoya said, hesitantly holstering her gun. "Where's the Joker?"  
  
"In there. You might want to get him to a hospital."  
  
"Is he . . .?"  
  
"Dead? Of course not." Ivy frowned. "I'm not going back to Arkham."  
  
"Detective Montoya?" Two officers had gone into the room to check the interior, and one was now calling to her.  
  
"Watch her," she ordered the remaining police before going in.  
  
Ivy waited silently until Montoya came back out, carrying the gun Ivy had stolen but never used. "He doesn't look so good, Ivy. You knocked out at least a half-dozen teeth, and broke at least four others. And he's got blotches all over his face."  
  
"He'll live," she replied. "He'll probably be back in Arkham in a day or two, in fact."  
  
Montoya looked at her appraisingly.   
  
"Can I go upstairs now? I'd like to see Harley. Now that the danger has passed, you know."  
  
"Detective," an officer began to say.  
  
"I know," she cut him off. "All right, let's go up. And stay with the Joker while I send a doctor down."  
  
As the time for urgency seemed to have passed, this time Montoya took the elevator. "What did you do to him, exactly?"  
  
"Tied him up. Gave him poison ivy. A really, _really_ bad case of poison ivy. Knocked his teeth out." Ivy acted nonchalant about it.  
  
"Assault and battery - could void your deal with the Commissioner. Then we could ship your girlfriend back to Arkham after all," Montoya replied calmly.  
  
Ivy said nothing. The Joker was the one with the rash, but her fingers were itching. Itching to smack her around, anyway. She shoved her hands in her pockets instead.  
  
Montoya raised an eyebrow but became silent as well.  
  
"Well?" Gordon asked them when they came back. His tone of voice didn't hold out much hope for good news.  
  
"He's alive," Montoya told him. "Nothing terminal. Ivy smuggled in some kind of strangling vine that tied the Joker in knots."  
  
Gordon looked at Ivy. "How did you get something like that in here? I heard even the Batman searched your things."  
  
"It was just a seed when I got back. A good soaking in a glass of water for five minutes was all I needed."  
  
"Any more of those seeds?"  
  
She pulled one of her hands out. There were four more seeds, almost the size of walnuts, in her palm.  
  
Gordon confiscated them. "Take these to forensics," he said to another officer, handing them over. "Whatever you do, don't get them wet."  
  
"Or feed them after midnight," Ivy murmured.  
  
"Look, Ivy . . ."  
  
"Look, _Commissioner_," she interjected. "You've got him in your custody. I didn't kill him. He's not even close to being dead. No casualties, no foul."  
  
"One casualty," he informed her. "I received word they found a hospital janitor in the alley with his throat cut."  
  
"Which would explain his outfit," Ivy replied. "A multi-story building full of people who aren't really able to defend themselves, and the Joker only got one? If you really feel the need to complain, leave me out of it. I'm checking on Harley." She moved to go around him.  
  
He blocked her progress. "We had a deal."  
  
"Then arrest me tomorrow," she snapped. "He wouldn't look any better if it was Batman leaving him trussed up at your feet."  
  
Gordon glanced at Montoya. "What do you think?"  
  
She shrugged. "Tomorrow sounds good. We should keep her and the Joker separate anyway."  
  
The commissioner sighed. "All right," he grumbled, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. "Maybe you can get those pets of hers to calm down, seeing as how it was your idea to have them guarding her bed."  
  
"I do have some experience in pest control," she said dryly before being allowed to go past him.  
  
"What do you think?" Montoya asked him when she was gone.   
  
"What else? Arrest her tomorrow, like the lady said."  
____________________________________  
  
"And it'll be just the two of us," Ivy said, wrapping up. "Well, all right, four of us," she added, glancing to her right. The two hyenas slept peacefully off to the side; one's foreleg was wrapped in bandages.  
  
"That's the plan," she whispered. "Isn't it a good one? All you have to do is wake up. It's been twenty-four hours now, and I have this guarantee that if you're still alive after 24 hours, you'll be all right. So don't be so damn stubborn."   
  
A tear rolled down her cheek as she risked squeezing Harley's hand just a little. "I love you," she said.  
  
" . . . you . . ."  
  
Ivy gasped. "Harley? Harley!"  
  
Her little fingers barely squeezed her own, but it was more than enough. "R-Red?" she asked, slightly opening one eye.  
  
"Oh, Harl, it's going to be all right now."  
  
"I . . . hurt."  
  
"You're in the hospital. You're going to be fine now, you just have to be," Ivy said, crying harder. "Just rest, okay?"  
  
"'Kay. Red?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Love you . . . too." Her eye closed again.  
  
Ivy smiled brilliantly. Killing him could never have matched that.  
  
To be concluded . . . 


	6. Chapter Six

Title: Life Don't Have to be No Bed of Roses (6/6)  
Author: Allaine  
Email: eac2nd@yahoo.com  
Distribution: Probably at fanfiction.net and the factsofslash group. Anyone interested should just ask, and can expect a positive answer.  
Spoilers: Takes place after the New Batman/Superman Adventures, with one alteration - in my story, Ivy's skin never turned white like the Joker's. So she still looks like you and me.  
Feedback: Reader response was really great the last time. I hope to see as much the second time around.  
Rating: R (graphic violence, angst)  
Disclaimers: All characters belong to . . . let's see, DC Comics, Kids WB and the Cartoon Network, the producers of the two Batman serials, the talented artists and voice actors, etc. I have borrowed them entirely without permission, for which I humbly beg forgiveness, but I seek no form of profit from this undertaking.  
Summary: The Joker was bound to interfere in Harley and Ivy's relationship. Will it survive? Will they? Sequel to "It's Just Allergies".  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Chapter 6  
  
"We've decided," Gordon told Ivy the next day in a conference room the hospital had provided, "not to press charges against you for the assault on the Joker."  
  
Ivy made a little smile. "What brought that on?"  
  
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not entirely comfortable allowing you to roam freely when I could have you behind bars," he warned her.   
  
"I'm sure," she replied. "I bet you threaten to arrest the Batman every time he beats up the Joker, too."  
  
He glared gruffly at her. "The District Attorney's office has informed me that it's not a winnable case. No jury is going to convict somebody for pummeling that maniac."  
  
"It's like I keep saying," she said easily, shaking her head. "The system doesn't work."  
  
"I attempted to convince them," Gordon continued, "that a jury might take your criminal record into context and look at it as an act of vengeance by a crazed lunatic . . ."  
  
She yawned and looked at her nails.  
  
"But," he added, her behavior grating on him, "they pointed out that all a defense attorney had to do was show the jury photos of Quinn."  
  
"Can I go now?"  
  
Gordon pushed his glasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes, you can go," he sighed. "And Ivy?"  
  
She turned to look at him as she reached for the doorknob.  
  
"It might interest you to know that Detective Montoya made the same arguments to me last night as the D.A. did this morning."  
  
"Well," she replied, thinking a second, "tell her thanks, but I already found the girl for me." Looking as pleased with herself as she ever did, she let herself out.  
  
He watched her go. "Get well soon, Quinn," he muttered. "So I can get you both out of my hair."  
______________________________  
  
"Did the delivery get here on time?"  
  
"Clockwork," the Penguin told her, settling into his chair while his employees got the lounge ready for business. "I'm surprised you found the time to swipe it all, considering the things I've heard about you and your little cockatiel."  
  
Ivy sighed. Not the word she would have used, considering she preferred plants to animals, but what could you do? "It's old, Penguin. Just things I've stolen over the years that I never got around to selling, or that I liked and decided to keep."  
  
"Having a garage sale?" Penguin asked, lowering his monocle and examining her closely.  
  
"If you must know," she said, "I need all the money I can get to pay for Harley's hospital bills. The police department certainly wasn't going to give me financial assistance as part of the deal."  
  
"I see," he replied, sounding faintly amused. He took a piece of paper from his jacket. "Well, I think you'll like the price I'm offering for the goods." Putting it on the table, he pushed it toward her.  
  
"Uh-huh," she murmured, doubting it. Negotiating a fair price for stolen merchandise with the Penguin took a degree of sweat and determination. She turned the paper over.  
  
Ivy stared at it. He was right; she _did_ like it. She was so surprised by his offer that she didn't even think to haggle upwards. "I'll take it," she said.  
  
"Excellent," he answered. "Perhaps we could adjourn to my office?"  
  
"What's with the generosity?" she asked him as they walked to the back of the establishment.  
  
"Patience, patience," the Penguin told her.  
  
He exhaled loudly as he sat behind his desk and started fiddling with the safe. "Perhaps when your paramour . . ."  
  
"This doesn't sound like an answer to my question."  
  
"Oh, that? I suppose I'm feeling uncommonly magnanimous after what you did."  
  
"What I did? What did I do?"  
  
Penguin glanced at her. "My dear Ivy, as one of the few major players in the Gotham underworld who still possesses his mental faculties, I think I have a pretty good sense of who's who and what's what."  
  
She rolled her eyes, which he chose to ignore. "Most of us are acquaintances, nothing more. We're not friends. Oh, sure, a few friendships - your relationship with Harley was an aberration long before it became intimate - but not much else. Like the Joker." He finally unlocked the safe and opened it.   
  
"What about him?"  
  
"Nobody likes him. In fact, everybody hates him. He never shuts up. He's full of himself. He's so unpredictable, you can't even talk to him. He's always trying to demolish the entire city, which as you can imagine, would make life hard for the rest of us."   
  
"So what, because I embarrassed him, suddenly I'm popular?" she asked as he counted bills.  
  
"It's just what I hear," he said absently. "Anyway, think of this as a bonus for disposing of him in such a way that he won't even think of breaking out of Arkham for weeks." The Penguin looked up. "When Two-Face or the Scarecrow is loose, people worry, but they don't panic. When the Joker is loose, people panic. They don't go out at night; they lock their doors. It's bad for business - my business."  
  
Ivy took the money he was handing her. "Part of this is a percentage of the profits you would have lost?" She made a desultory attempt to count it.  
  
"Something like that," he replied, smiling a little. "You know, if you really wanted to boost my profits, you could bring your - "  
  
"Her name is Harley, Penguin. I've reserved the right to call her pet names," she told him.  
  
"Of course," he said, blinking. "You could bring _Harley_ in after she's released, have dinner here one night. Everybody wants a look at the two of you these days."  
  
"Sorry, we're not one of your polar bears," Ivy responded. "Besides, as soon as they let her out, we're leaving."  
  
"Leaving?"  
  
"Gotham. That _was_ part of the deal."  
  
He looked really surprised for the first time that day. "Why, that's extortion! They can't just have you thrown out of Gotham like a couple of undesirables."  
  
"We're all undesirables, Penguin."  
  
"Most men would disagree with you, Ivy - now more than ever."  
____________________________________  
  
"What's black and white and red all over?"  
  
Ivy straightened. "A newspaper," she answered, folding the one she was scanning through.  
  
"Actually," Edward Nigma replied, sitting across from her, "the answer is the Joker with a skin rash and a shiner."  
  
She looked at him. "Aren't you afraid someone's going to recognize you?"  
  
"I didn't realize my face had that instant recognition factor. Besides, who would think the Riddler would be sitting in a hospital cafeteria?"  
  
"When did you get out?"  
  
"Last night. I've got all the dirt on the Joker, Ivy, if you want to hear it." He grinned slyly.  
  
Ivy tapped the pen in her hand against the table several times. "What's he been saying lately?"  
  
"Why, nothing, Ivy. Absolutely nothing. I thought you'd heard at least that much."  
  
"I don't leave this place too often," she explained. "The trip I made to the Iceberg the other day was probably the farthest I've been from the hospital in a while."  
  
"Yes, we've all gotten the dish from Penguin," he said.  
  
"How'd you manage that?"  
  
"Arkham still leaks like a sieve while they try to clean up the mess left by the old head doctor," he told her. "Penguin's own little black market is plying its trade heavily with us loonies."  
  
She wasn't surprised. Perhaps that was why he'd given her the extra cash for her merchandise; by contributing to the professional demise of Dr. Park, she'd made it easy for him to make a killing selling goods to the inmates. "So what made the Joker shut up for once?"  
  
"You did. Well, you and the dentist who worked on his teeth."  
  
"Oh," she realized.  
  
His grin got wider. "Yes, _oh_. His jaw has been wired shut since he arrived at Arkham. And that's not even the best part."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"That massive skin rash you gave him? He was scratching so much that they put him in a straitjacket. Then he used his toes to scratch his legs, so they had to strap those down." He tried not to laugh as he described the scene. "Watching the almighty Joker being pushed around Arkham, dressed like Hannibal Lecter . . . you didn't take him down a peg. You took him down a dozen of them." He chuckled and rubbed one of his eyes. "He's figured out a way to fill the room with laughter, and he can't even enjoy it."  
  
Ivy wasn't laughing; she just sat there, smiling, taking a grim but extremely high level of satisfaction in what she was hearing. "Isn't anyone afraid of what he'll do when he gets out?"  
  
"Oh, I suppose, but the opportunity is so appealing. He's constantly quivering from the rash, so someone thought to call him 'Twitchy'. Trust me, Harley - he'll never live this one down."  
  
"He's lucky I let him live at all," she said.   
  
"Probably," he agreed. "All right, now it's your turn."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Well, I gave you the info, so now you've got to tell me."  
  
"You're not telling riddles, and yet you're as nebulous as ever. Tell you _what_?" she asked, exasperated.  
  
"Why, your sex life, of course."  
  
She glared murderously at him.  
  
"Kidding, kidding," he said hastily, putting his hands up. "It probably can't compete with everyone's fantasies anyway."  
  
"I could put this pen through your eye, Eddie."  
  
"Of course, right," Riddler added nervously. "No, we heard from the Penguin that you were leaving Gotham for good. Everyone wants to know if it's true."  
  
"Yes, it is. Could you go now?"  
  
"Why so short with me, Ivy?" he asked charmingly. "Oh, all right. I could ask you where you're headed, but you probably wouldn't tell me. Besides, I think I can puzzle that one out myself."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
He snatched her newspaper and unfolded it. "New York Post?" His eyed widened. "Help wanted ads?"  
  
"Nigma!" she hissed, yanking it from his hands. "Do you fucking mind?!"  
  
Riddler leaned back a little. "There's a riddle for you. Last week, I heard you were a lesbian. Today I found out you were going straight. Is that what they mean by a gay-straight alliance?"  
  
"Not permanently," Ivy said, pissed. "Harley's going to need caring for, even after she leaves here. I can't go pulling jobs and worrying about her at the same time. Besides, I want us to be a team again."  
  
"Cute," he told her.  
  
"You're not."  
  
"Hey, if you think you can control yourself that long . . ."  
  
"I'm leaving now, Edward."  
  
"Hear Scarface is back in?"  
  
She was surprised again. "No, I hadn't. I figured that little man finally put the dummy away for good."  
  
"To hear him tell it," the Riddler informed her, "he wasn't happy with his life. Apparently it's more fun being ordered around by a piece of wood."  
  
"Which is no weirder than a compulsion to tell the police the location of your next heist."  
  
"Or," he said, arching an eyebrow, "attacking people because they wear a carnation in their lapel. And launching into shrill diatribes about things that even the Earth Liberation Front wouldn't give a shit about. Maybe this goes to show that sooner or later, we always go back to Arkham."   
  
If he was trying to make a point, he'd apparently only served to get himself down. Ivy already had a response. "Or maybe the Ventriloquist didn't have a reason to stay sane. And maybe I do."  
  
"Maybe," he said calmly. "Good luck, Ivy. There isn't a single person in Arkham who wants to see Harley going back to that asshole."  
  
She nodded as she got up. Maybe Penguin wasn't too far off about this whole popularity thing.  
______________________________________  
  
"Oh, Ms. - um, is Ivy your first or last name?"  
  
"Just Ivy will do."  
  
The petty bureaucrat smiled insincerely. Ivy just wanted it over with. She didn't know what Harley's bill came to at this point, but she had more than enough to pay it.  
  
"You had some questions regarding Ms. Quinn's medical bills?" he asked, somewhat nervous. The sign on his desk said his name was Mr. Oliver.  
  
About the only people who worked in this hospital and who didn't stammer and tremble in her presence were the nurses on Harley's floor, her physician, and her physical therapist. Fortunately, the slim chance that she wouldn't need a transplant paid off, but she was still very weak from her injuries, especially when added to a long list of prior injuries.   
  
"Nobody's told me how much she owes the hospital," she replied. "Since I'll be paying her bills, I want to take care of it. Right now, if possible. Do you take cash?"  
  
"Well, you see, Ivy," Mr. Oliver explained, "all of Ms. Quinn's expenses are being covered by a third party. You don't owe us anything."  
  
Astonished, Ivy stared at his quivering mouth. "Who?" she finally asked. "I know it sure as hell isn't the city."  
  
"The, uh, Wayne Foundation. Mr. Wayne called me himself, in fact."  
  
That did not serve to lessen her amazement, especially considering that Christmas prank she and Harley had played on him a while back. "You're not serious."  
  
"Yes, I am. In fact, I made a note of it in the file. See, he said otherwise, someone might try to pay with a platinum VISA and a glazed look in their eye."  
  
That remark should have annoyed her, but she was focused more on the fact that she now had a lot of money that she didn't need to spend on medical bills. They could find an apartment in New York, and get some nice furniture, like a _really_ big bed . . .  
  
She looked up, realizing he was still talking. "What?"  
  
"Will there be anything else?" He seemed most eager for her to leave his office.  
  
Which was fine with her. She wanted to share the news with a special someone.  
____________________________________  
  
"Red. Ree-eeddd."  
  
Ivy slowly opened her eyes and was conscious of something weighing her down. Or someone. "Harley?"  
  
"If I'm the one who keeps getting PT, why are you the one who's so tired?" Harley whispered as she nestled into Ivy's shoulder, carefully resting in her lap.  
  
"You shouldn't be out of bed," Ivy whispered. "It's after . . ." She looked over Harley's shoulder. ". . . eleven P.M."  
  
"Don't you like me like this?"  
  
Ivy smiled in spite of herself. "I love you like this. I love you any way you want." The outward signs of Harley's assault had largely faded from her body. Even now, however, she was still healing on the inside, and she was still weak. Certain parts of her body were sensitive to any touch.  
  
Harley squealed softly. "And I love when you say things like that." She put her hands on Ivy's cheeks and kissed her on the lips. "So, you wanna do it?"  
  
Ivy started coughing. "Um, Harley?" she finally asked when she was able to talk.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"So it wouldn't hurt if I put my hand here?" She rested her hand on Harley's breast.  
  
The other woman shivered, from pleasure rather than pain. "No," she cooed.  
  
"And what about here?" She moved her hand to Harley's lower back.  
  
Ivy felt the tremors running up Harley's spine, and those she knew were due to her internal injuries.   
  
"No," Harley said bravely.  
  
Ivy pressed gently against Harley's abdomen.  
  
Harley cried out softly, despite her attempts not to.  
  
"Come on," Ivy told her, moving her off her lap. Then she carefully picked Harley up in her arms and carried her the short distance to her bed. "Another week and we'll be together."  
  
In the last few weeks they had probably opened up to each other more than they had in the year before. Both women felt they really understood each other. Sometimes Harley brought up the Joker, but Ivy actually encouraged her to. With time, Harley did so less and less, and she rarely referred to him as her "puddin" or "Mr. J". Sometimes she would start to, and then check herself and say "Joker" instead. Which, Ivy felt, was as sure a sign of progress as she could ask for.  
  
She looked around the darkened room in which she'd fallen asleep, as she did most nights now. By the window were the potted flowers that had come for Harley via Professor Crane. Ivy knew that he had gotten along with Harley in Arkham reasonably well, but she'd still had the blossoms tested (no fear toxin). Near that was the unsigned note which Ivy was relatively sure had come from Catwoman, which was surprising considering the time Harley had tried to grind her into cat food. It read, "The only thing harder than walking out that door, is not walking back in. Don't give the creep another thought."  
  
"Ivy?" Harley whispered, still favoring one side over the other.  
  
"Yes, Harley?"  
  
"Did you feed the babies today?"  
  
Ivy looked skyward for a second. "Yes, Harley."  
  
"Red?"  
  
"I did, honest."  
  
"Kiss me good night?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
So she did. And if Harley's hand happened to find its way under Ivy's blouse, well, that probably wasn't an accident.  
__________________________________________  
  
"Geez," Bullock muttered under his breath to Montoya. "It feels like watching my grandparents leave when I was a kid. Only these two ain't the warm and nurturing type."  
  
"Somehow I never thought of your family as warm and nurturing, Harvey," Montoya replied.  
  
"Well, I guess that's the last of it," Ivy was saying meanwhile as she closed the trunk. She'd used part of her savings to buy a used car, or "pre-owned vehicle" as they were calling it these days. Which, Ivy thought, sounded a lot like a stolen car. Those were cheaper, but she didn't feel like parking a stolen car in view of the police commissioner.  
  
"You do realize," Gordon warned her, "that I'll be contacting the NYPD and alerting them that you two will be arriving shortly."  
  
"Why, so they can escort us to the city limits?" Harley said from the passenger side. "Welcome to New York, have fun in Philadelphia?"  
  
"It's just a warning," he said. "You keep your noses clean, the police won't bother you."  
  
"Augh!"  
  
Everyone turned around and saw the man running away. "What was that?" Gordon asked.  
  
"News photographer," Bullock said. "Got a little too close to the back seat window."  
  
The hyenas looked out through the window in question, drooling all over it.  
  
"That's my cue," Ivy sighed. "I want to leave before Summer Gleason makes an appearance."  
  
"Good luck, Ms. Isley," Gordon told her.  
  
"It's Ivy, Gordon," she corrected him. "It'll always be Harley and Ivy." Smiling knowingly, she turned her back and strolled over to the driver's side before getting in and starting the car.  
  
They watched her drive away, while Harley made faces through the window. "Look out, New York," Gordon murmured.  
  
"NYPD'll be all right. Plus I hear they got some bat-men of their own," Bullock volunteered.  
  
"Gargoyles are just an urban myth, Bullock," Montoya told him. "Like alligators in the sewers."  
  
"Commissioner?"  
  
"Yes, Officer?"  
  
"That was Arkham. Killer Croc just escaped into the tunnels."  
  
"You were saying?" Bullock asked Montoya.  
  
The End. (To be continued in _Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth_)  
  
Author's Note (MUST READ) -   
  
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the rest of my work, _Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth_ is the name of my next "Gargoyles" fanfic. Due to growing demands on my time, I have no doubt that I do not have the luxury of writing two different series at once. My Gargoyles stories are very important to me, while "It's Just Allergies" started almost on a whim (which is not to suggest I made less of an effort on my Batman stories). Therefore, Harley and Ivy are going from stars of their own story, to important members of the ensemble cast of my Gargoyles series.   
  
I realize that many of you will stop reading at this point. To continue following Harley and Ivy's adventures, one would have to read the first four stories in my Gargoyles series: Wolf at the Door, Out of Their Element, A Bitter Pill to Swallow, and Vessel. For those uninitiated to the show, they would also have to find a website, like the Gargoyles Fans Website at www.gargoyles-fans.org and read all the background and context. This is asking a whole lot of you, and for those of you who really don't want to bother, I understand, and thanks for reading. (After all, when I switched from Buffy to Gargoyles several months ago, only about twenty readers expressed interest.)  
  
To those of you who are willing to keep reading, my Gargoyles stories are all at www.fanfiction.net . And thanks for your support. Harley and Ivy will not get lost in the shuffle at New York City (and if you think they're the only Gothamites who will appear in NYC in the future, you are quite mistaken). So sit back and enjoy. Ivy's got herself an interview with a subsidiary of Nightstone Unlimited, after all, and they're not too squeamish about who they hire ;)  
  
Sincerely, Allaine 


	7. Bonus Scene

Author's Note - This scene is taken directly from the second chapter of my current Gargoyles story "Sharper than a Serpent's Tooth". I thought that, for all you loyal readers of Allergies and Bed of Roses who decided not to continue, you'd like to see what our ladies are doing with themselves now that they're in New York. It's short, but hey, it's fun :) I'll probably do this again in the future. Take care, Allaine.  
  
(See previous chapters for disclaimers.)  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
"Are you sure we can afford this?" Harley asked doubtfully as she looked around the hotel room. "We need our money for an apartment."  
  
"You just got out of the hospital," Ivy replied as she pulled their suitcases through the door by the attached leashes. "I'm not letting you sleep on a lumpy mattress in a fleabag motel."  
  
"But I'm fine," Harley said brightly, raising her arms. "Otherwise I would still be _in_ the hospital."  
  
Ivy grunted as she put Harley's suitcase up on the rack they provided for luggage. "So if I started tickling your tummy, you'd laugh for, what, five seconds before the pain got too bad?"  
  
Harley sat down on the bed with a thump, her smile fading. "I'm sorry," she answered. "I've been slowing you down."  
  
"No," Ivy corrected her, "you've been picking me up." She opened the suitcase and got out a big plastic bag. "It feels good to see you on your feet and out of the hospital. Speaking of which, it's time for your medicine."  
  
"Red," Harley pouted, "I hate your medicine. Can't we use the pills the hospital gave me?"  
  
"Pills," Ivy sneered. "Years of effort and millions of dollars, all geared toward reproducing the healing powers of the very nature that surrounds us. With nastier side effects, of course." She took a thermos out and started shaking it vigorously. "This will speed your body's ability to heal itself, instead of just masking the pain like those little white pills do."  
  
"But pills don't taste terrible," Harley pointed out.   
  
"If they did, people wouldn't get addicted to them so much, and the pharmaceutical companies would lose profits," Ivy replied blandly. "Come on, Harley. You're healing more slowly than most people because of all the abuse you've suffered over the years. This will help."  
  
Harley sighed as Ivy poured something into a glass. Something green, of course. "All right," she muttered. Taking the glass, she took a sip and made a face.  
  
"That's my girl," Ivy said only, but inside she continued to seethe at what she'd been subjected to over the years. One too many kicks in the stomach, one too many punches in the back, one too many attempts on her life - it was a wonder her entire body hadn't collapsed yet. Gently she rubbed her hand up and down Harley's spine.  
  
"Dontcha think you shouldn't be making fun of drug companies when you have an interview with one tomorrow?" Harley suggested as she finally finished drinking and, with a shudder and a grimace, put the glass on the nighttable.  
  
Ivy shrugged. "While I'm working honestly, I'd like to be paid well. And since I'll end up cheating whomever I work for when you've healed enough, it doesn't really matter what I think about drug companies. Although, granted, I could never work for a lumber mill."  
  
While Harley had been in the hospital in Gotham, Ivy had found a job opportunity in New York. Nightstone Unlimited, a new conglomerate, had just opened a branch office in Gotham, and Ivy had interviewed with them for a job with its drug subsidiary, Berkshire Pharmaceuticals. She'd done well enough that they invited her to a second round of interviews when she arrived in New York. Fortunately the woman had moved to Gotham from New York, so she didn't recognize Ivy from newspaper photos the way a lot of Gothamites would have.   
  
Ivy certainly hadn't made it easier for her, turning in a fake resume. She'd paid someone to give her a new identity, and that was all it took to become Patricia Exley, law-abiding botanist and chemist.   
  
As Ivy got up to put the plant-based medication away, Harley noticed a flash of color in her suitcase, which Ivy had packed for her. "What's that?" she asked.  
  
"Something for when you're all better," Ivy said with a smile. She took something out of the suitcase and allowed it to unfold.  
  
Harley gasped. "My outfit? But it got all torn up!"  
  
"And I had a new one made for you, silly," Ivy told her. "I'm pretty sure I got the size right." She shook the red-and-black costume a little.  
  
"Looks all right," Harley agreed, but she still looked surprised. More surprised than Ivy had expected, actually.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing's - wrong. It's just I didn't think you'd want me to be Harley Quinn any more," Harley admitted.  
  
It was Ivy's turn to be startled. "Not want . . . what on earth are you talking about?"  
  
"Because," Harley said plaintively, "you know? Harley Quinn? Joker? It's kind of a matched pair, the whole playing cards thing. Joker came up with the idea, and, well . . ."  
  
Ivy slung the costume over her arm and sat down next to her once more. "I don't want you to be someone else, Harley. Shouldn't that have been your first clue, the fact that I still call you _Harley_? Otherwise I'd have started referring to you as Harleen."  
  
"Well, yeah," Harley said.  
  
"And Harley Quinn is who you are, not what the Joker said you were," Ivy went on. "Go on being Harley without the Joker, and show everybody that you're your own person. Besides, I always liked you in your tight little outfit, anyway," she added slyly.  
  
Harley blushed. "I'm not my own person, though. Not really."  
  
"Harley," Ivy reminded her. There were still some lingering vestiges of her attachment to the Joker.  
  
"I'm yours."  
  
Ivy stopped and stared. Then she smiled, embarrassed. "How about you're ours? Like I am?"  
  
"Okies," Harley answered, slowly taking the outfit from Ivy's arms and testing it. "Ooh, it feels nice."  
  
"You want to try it on?"  
  
"I don't know," Harley said. "It's hard to remove quickly, you know." The look in her eyes was unmistakable.  
  
Ivy held her breath. "Only if you're ready," she replied. She and Harley had never really discussed their sex lives when they were just friends; Ivy didn't want to hear about the Joker's sexual escapades, and frankly, Ivy had no lovers to speak of. Only recently had she learned that Harley was a very _physical_ young woman in bed, and so her recovery from her injuries and her low energy had made lovemaking very difficult. They had only gone so far.  
  
"I'm not a patient any more," Harley said. "We have a hotel room to ourselves. And we're free. I'd like to feel free, Red."  
  
"Then I'll just have to leave it until tomorrow to unpack my case," Ivy replied, grinning even as butterflies erupted in her stomach.  
  
But then Harley touched her cheek, and their lips met, and she wasn't nervous anymore. 


End file.
